


Sansa and Petyr Make a Porno

by GreedIsGreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drugs, F/M, I'm listing it for the free day prompt, Petyr Baelish Week 2017, Sex, but really it's for that ho WriterChick, keep shady, petyr is porn producer, sansa is his prize, they're gonna make beautiful music together, you can blame her for this idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-01-10 13:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12300018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreedIsGreen/pseuds/GreedIsGreen
Summary: It's the 70s. Disco is king, drugs are in everybody's pocket, and -- with the rise of excess -- a new industry is taking off.Pornography.Petyr Baelish is one the top producers, and Sansa is desperate for work now that she's out from under her oppressive aunt's thumb. Does she have what it takes to be his new "it" girl?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WriterChick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterChick/gifts).



Ros was chewing gum, filing her nails when he walked in. Décolletage on display in a low cut, slit sleeve, peasant blouse that managed to effect the light airy style of the hippies, but bold enough to see in any disco. She was one of his better actresses (if such term could be used for a hooker turned porn star), and held a certain street smarts that made her useful to him outside her obvious talents. She didn’t look up to greet him. 

“There’s a girl in your office,” she said, lips smacking.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence per se, except for the knowledge that auditions for his latest project wrapped last week. He grabbed the stack of messages off her desk. “Got a name?” 

“Nope.” Her gum popped.

“Oh good,” Petyr drawled as he grabbed some paperwork off her desk. Looming over her he asked, “So you let some unknown woman into my office to riffle through my things. Want to tell me what I pay you for again, honey?”

“My sparkling personality,” she bit back, her bright red lips set in a teasing grin. The emery board in her hand clattered against the desk as she stood to face him. “Relax, daddy,” she said as she smoothed over his navy, fitted blazer, and adjusted his flared collar. “I made sure everything was locked up before I let her in. The prissy miss wouldn’t take no for an answer.” 

Her brow furrowed, and Petyr could tell there was something she wasn’t saying. “Out with it.”

Hands faltered in their attention, straightening the thin chain around his neck before dropping to her sides. She met his gaze, her brown eyes pleading. “She’s young, Mr. Baelish. Too young to be doing this line of work. I knew what I signed up for when I came here — as did the others — and, don’t get me wrong, we’re all grateful. But this girl will be eaten alive if you take her on.”

This was new. Ros rarely suffered a crisis of conscience — couldn’t afford it growing up on the streets as she had. He cupped her jaw, eyes narrowed. “You’re sure she’s here for work?”

Ros nodded. “She’s got that look in her eyes: hungry, desperate. Send her away. There has to be a better end for an innocent thing like that.”

Petyr gave her cheek two little pats, neither refusal nor confirmation of her request. One thing he’d learned — exploited really — is that appearances can be deceiving. A weakling of a boy can survive the harshest blows, and the most beautiful women can contain the most tainted minds. He wondered what sort of person he’d find on the other side of that door.

He was accosted by a cascade of red hair: long, thick, vibrant. Decidedly, not from a bottle. The girl didn’t turn — didn’t hear him enter — but when the door clicked shut behind him, her postured straightened. The hands in her lap stopped fidgeting.

Petyr took slow steps, feigning to read the papers in his hand as he assessed her in his periphery. Straight back. Long, shapely legs crossed demurely at the ankle. Tiny waist. Ample bosom. If her face was even half-passable, he’d make a killing at the Frisco.

He let disinterest seep from his demeanor, not even glancing up as he took his seat. Shuffled through the few innocuous documents that he held.

“Good morning, Mr. Baelish.”

That voice. He knew that voice. He didn’t so much as move his head from its position, hunched over the messages in his hand. His hooded gaze shifting just enough to rake over the girl in front of him — Sansa-fucking-Stark.

It had been three years since he’d seen the girl. He’d attended a key party at Lysa’s request (demand really), and the goddamn trainwreck that she was had set her sights on him. He managed to distract her with a few bumps of coke, and a flimsy excuse to procure drinks for their rendezvous (with keys thankfully in hand). He, however, had no intention of returning. Unfortunately, the abode in which he found himself was a maze of twisted corridors and stairs. When Lysa — impatient for his company — started calling out his name, he ducked into the first room he came upon and locked the door. A stricken fifteen-year-old Sansa Stark stared at him wide-eyed from the bed, clutching sheets to her chest. What a fucking gift.

“Miss Stark.” The messages fell forgotten to his desk. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I need a job. Sir,” she added as an afterthought.

A supercilious grin overtook his face. The sweet, prim daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark facing him from the opposite side of his desk, asking him — him! — for work. 

Leaning back in his chair, he asked, “You do realize what we do here, sweetling? Don’t you?”

The girl only sat up straighter. “I’m aware.”

“Say it.”

Sansa gulped. _Hard_. “You,” she looked down to her twisting fingers, “ _makeadultfilms_.” 

Oh, she was precious. “Pornography, Miss Stark. We make pornography.”

“Pornography,” she repeated as though she were trying to make the thought more appealing. 

Petyr knew she must be in dire straights to come to him. Lysa had been no fit guardian for the girl after Ned and Catelyn died so unexpectedly; drug addicted, shopaholic, self-proclaimed disco queen — a term that should never be applied to a woman so insufferable. Now here Sansa was, trying to survive on her own with nothing to her name, an unfinished education, and one disinterested family member who probably didn’t care whether the girl lived or died.

It wasn’t all that long ago he found himself in similar circumstances. Only he was younger, and even less well off, with not even family to rely on. His naivety was smashed to dust, and Sansa’s would be, too, in time — if it wasn’t already. He wondered if she thought he might put her somewhere behind the scenes in deference to his past relationship with her mother. Only a monster would take advantage of his old friend’s daughter, after all.

Petyr Baelish, however, was not a man accustomed in relenting to sentiment.

He stood from his chair, rounding the desk to lean against it; parked himself in front of her. He studied her — from the tangle of red hair atop her head to the flat soled slippers that tipped her long legs and up again. There was such hope in those big, blue eyes when he met them. He wondered if she’d break immediately upon his refusal, or if she’d fight for a place.

Running his hand down her arm, he let her down gently. “I’m sorry, sweetling, but I don’t think there’s a place for you here.”

He swore her eyes glassed over, if only for a moment. “But I can do anything you need. I can run pages or grab coffee, and I’m passing good at makeup. Please,” she begged, “there has to be something.” 

Good. She was a fighter. Sansa didn’t have much in her arsenal, but she knew when to pull it — those innocent eyes, that perfectly shaped doll face, the harried edge to her voice. However, the illusion of propriety — of his reluctance — still needed to be maintained.

His hands ran through his curls as he rose. “I don’t need an assistant. I already have Ros. The girls do their own makeup; bring their own outfits. I have no use for you.” His tone was apologetic, hinting that were this any other business he would welcome her gladly. At least, he hoped she read it that way.

He turned away from her. It was a wordless dismissal, but she refused to give in. “I could be one of your girls.” There was a slight tremble in her voice, but only the most observant would notice. 

_He_ noticed.

The idea stopped him dead. He’d hoped, but never in a million years had he thought that _she_ would suggest such a thing. He knew there was more to the girl than what she presented, and Petyr found himself infinitely glad that he was facing away from her. Were she to see the the bob of his throat, the unmistakable interest in his eyes, she might realize who had the better cards in this game they were playing. 

The hand closest to the desk lifted, ran along the cool metal surface, giving a _taptaptap_ with his knuckle, as though he was considering her proposal. He would accept, of course, but not without feigning some internal conflict.

Petyr drifted back to his chair and sat down, let his gaze scan over her in appraisal. Long moments passed. Crossing one ankle of over his knee, he licked his lips, steepled his fingers. “How often do you masturbate, Sansa?”

The question took her aback, eyes widened with shock. “What?” A mouse in a trap.

“It’s a simple question. How often you stick those lovely fingers between your legs to find your own pleasure? If you can’t answer the question, you can’t survive this industry.”

“I-” She took a steadying breath. “I’ve never-”

“Never?” Impossible. He leaned forward over the desk, letting his fingers entwine before him. “You expect me to believe you’ve never masturbated?”

“I- Joffrey wouldn’t let me.” The girl struggled to maintain eye contact. “He said I was his, and touching myself was akin to cheating on him.”

Ah, yes. The illustrious golden child. The prince that was supposed to make everything better. How quickly that castle came crashing down.

“Tell me this, then. Have you ever had an orgasm?” It was asked more to get a reaction, than in earnestness. He knew the answer already. A very fond memory floated just within reach. 

Unable to look him in the eye, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she revealed, “No.” A lie. Either she was a better actress than he gave her credit for or she didn’t remember. The latter would certainly be a blow to his ego. The former, however, was ripe with possibilities.

Doubling down, he wondered aloud, “Now how do you expect to work in this field if you’ve never even had a proper fuck? Certainly, you don’t believe you can fake something you’ve never felt?”

Her shoulders slumped. He could almost believe she really had no recollection of that night. He certainly had never forgotten it, however.

* * *

The girl looked terrified, no doubt aware of what was taking place in the rest of the manor while she was cooped up in her room. Her aunt’s salacious past times brazenly displayed for any and all who knew her.

A finger lifted to his lips. “ _Shhhhhh!_ I just-”

“Oh, Peeeeetyr!” Lysa’s voice pealed high and anxious through the hall outside. “Where are you, my sweet Irish cinnamon roll? Petyr?”

He cringed, and the girl seemed to take pity on him. “I take it you’re Petyr?” she whispered.

“Unfortunately,” he confirmed. “I just need to hide out for a bit.” He gestured to a seat at the nearby window. “May I?”

The girl shrugged, and he took that as begrudging acceptance. She lay back down, turning on her side to face him as he settled into the high wingback chair, closing his eyes, willing the incessant caterwauling of his biggest regret to cease.

“How do you know my aunt?”

The question caught him unawares. He glanced through his lashes over to where the girl lay, bright eyes studying him. He recognized her immediately, for who could have that shade of hair and not be a Tully. “I grew up with her at her family’s farm. My Da was an overseer there.”

“Did you know my mom, too? Catelyn?”

An infinitesimal pain skittered over his chest. He ignored it. “Yeah. I knew Catelyn. And Edmure,” he added quickly with a bit of a snort. “How did you end up with your aunt?” He wasn’t sure why he was asking. Maybe because she looked so like Catelyn. Maybe because he couldn’t conceive anyone placing a living creature, much less her, into Lysa’s custody.

“There wasn’t anyone else to take me in. Uncle Edmure ran off to Canada to avoid the draft. Cousin Jon is MIA in Vietnam. It was either this or the foster system.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you might have been better in the foster system.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “You mind?” he asked.

“No. But open the window. If Aunt Lysa smells smoke in here, there’ll be hell to pay.”

_A hypocrite as ever_ , he thought wryly.

With the window propped open, Petyr pulled a joint from where it was hidden in the pack. He wasn’t one to usually indulge, but between Lysa searching the house for him and the vision of the girl he once loved interrogating him, he needed something to kill the negative vibes.

Sansa’s nose crinkled knowingly. “That’s not a cigarette.”

He let the hit escape his lungs, let the effects of the drug roll through him. “No. It’s not.”

Sitting up, she asked, “Can I try?”

His eyes grazed over the pert nipples that poked through her night shirt from the now cool air. He hoped she didn’t notice in the dark. “That’s probably a bad idea, sweetling.”

“Hmm… You’re right,” she agreed. “I could just call my aunt in here. Say there’s a strange man in my room.”

His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?” She raised her eyebrow, daring him to try her.

“Fuck,” he half-laughed. Undone by a smartass teenager. He waved a hand in surrender. “Come on.”

Sansa scurried out of bed revealing little pajama shorts wore, and he pat his thigh indicating she should take a seat. She hesitated for a moment before relenting. 

He was about to hand the joint over, but retracted it at the last second. Observing the petulant pout on her lips, something stirred, but he tamped it down. “Have you ever smoked before?”

She worried at her lip. “No.”

“Okay, then,” he said, settling a languorous hand on her hip. “First things first. This is strong shit. It’s gonna hit you hard and fast, especially since you have no tolerance for it.” She nodded. “Two, don’t breathe too deeply on the first hit. Your lungs aren’t used to it, you’ll cough it right back up. Take a little breath, a little hit, and another little breath on the tail end, then hold it for as long as you can. Got it?”

“I think so.” She wiggled enthusiastically in his lap, brushing lightly against the hardness that he did a poor job of preventing.

He cleared his throat, pulled her tighter. “Alright then.” He held the joint up to her mouth. “Give it a go.”

A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, and he felt tug of conscience at how that innocent act sent a surge to his groin. But Sansa — oblivious to the way his hand flexed its grip on her — very consciously, deliberately followed his instructions. Her moistened lips wrapping around the tip, her cheeks hollowing out ever so slightly. It was enough to drive a lesser man mad. Her eyes shut — an imitation of ecstasy — as the thin trail of smoke was finally released. Not a cough in sight. He couldn’t help be a little impressed with her for that.

“Very good. How do you feel?”

Her head hit his shoulder, and he held the joint between his lips as he pulled her legs up so she rested fully in his grasp. “Relaxed,” she finally hummed, a little smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. ‘S nice.”

“Still going to tattle on me?” he asked with a grin.

Sansa giggled; her taut little ass vibrating against his erection, and he fought not to thrust up against her. “I wasn’t gonna. Not really.” Her index finger ran over the point of his beard. “She would have just blamed me anyway. Says I’m a whore. Just like mum.”

“What?” His brow arched. What a vile, jealous bitch to take her hatred of her own sister out on the creature in his arms. He tapped out the joint, setting it on the table. “Do you think you’re a whore?”

Her fingers trailed lackadaisically over the medallion around his neck, finding the outline of the bird emblazoned there. “I don’t think so.” Her sky blue eyes met his as he watched her. “I’ve never even been kissed.”

How in the world was he supposed to resist an invitation like that? This girl, barely bloomed, staring up at him like he hung the moon. It was probably the drugs affecting both their judgment — loneliness, too — but when he cupped her chin, pressed his lips tenderly against hers, so achingly sweet, he knew he’d never regret it.

* * *

“I can learn.”

The words broke him from the memory, sang in his ear like a siren’s song — beautiful and rife for trouble. “You can, can you?”

“I’m a quick study,” she said with more confidence. And then the words so depraved left her lips. “You can teach me.”

Petyr already had a semi from the mere suggestion. “You’re sure you want to do this? Act in a pornographic film?” He said it shamelessly. He wanted her to feel the full impact of the implications, to hear it said aloud and make the choice herself without further guidance from him.

The moment of truth. “Yes, sir.”

There was a quick swipe of his tongue over parched lips before he ordered, “Take off your clothes.”

“Now?” she asked with color blossoming in her cheeks.

“You said you wanted to learn,” he challenged.

Petyr watched the rapid succession of emotions flit over her face: uncertainty, fear, reluctance, and ultimately, acceptance. He couldn’t help the tick at the corner of his lips. She was fearless and proud. Every inch her mother’s daughter.

Genteel hands — far steadier than he would have credited her — lifted to the buttons of her floral clad blouse; each button popped out with practiced ease until she stood, let it slide from her shoulders, and draped it over the chair. The pleated, tweed skirt she wore soon followed, along with the simple shoes she slipped off her feet. Sansa paused for a moment, fingers flexing at her side, until he gave her the extra encouragement she needed to continue. 

Voice hoarse. “Everything, sweetling.”

Moments passed, and Sansa Stark in all her glory stood naked before him. Cat would roll over in her grave if she saw what her sweet daughter was doing. That knowledge only made him enjoy it all the more.

When Petyr stood from his chair to approach, Sansa flinched almost imperceptibly. He raised a brow, but said nothing as he circled her. She was perfection incarnate. All alabaster skin; nary a blemish to be seen. Only a freckle here and there, and the white jagged marks along her hips, thighs, and breasts. Proof of how quickly puberty bore down on her, making her into the image of a woman.

He stopped in front of her, hand raised, meeting her gaze, looking for any sign of protest. When it never came, he traced the edges of a mark — thicker than the rest — along the outside of one luscious breast, following its bends and curves to the end. He felt her shudder at the soft, undemanding touch, and wondered if she’d never been handled like that. He stepped behind her, looking his fill. A different type of contact this time, along her back. He let the knuckle of his index run along each notch of her spine, a slow drag from the bottom of her neck to the curve of her ass. She arched into the feeling. She was so very responsive, and he felt his cock harden fully when the tiniest sigh escaped her lips.

Oh, she was too good to share. The urge to have her overwhelming. 

Stepping closer, he breathed into her ear, “Sit down on that chair for me,” indicating with his outstretched hand a leather arm chair that stood centrally placed to the side of his office. It was normally used for auditions — a camera present, focused specifically to accumulate footage of prospective girls as they posed for him — but there was a decidedly different objective in mind for the day.

While Sansa went to situate herself, Petyr left the office, readjusting the bulge in his breeches as he searched out the full length standing mirror in the studio’s dressing room just around the corner. When he returned, he halted in place. For all that she was naked, Sansa sat there as regally as a queen. He could almost envision the crown on her head — silver branches weaving into each other, bespeckled with diamonds and sapphires. In another life, perhaps.

The mirror was positioned before her, the camera flipped on in passing, and he placed himself to stand at the back of the chair, arms braced — the devil over her shoulder. “Now,” he rasped. “I want you to place one leg on each arm of the chair, and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me what you see.”

Sansa — so eager to please — did as she was told with only the briefest hesitation. It took another moment for her to work up the courage to look at her reflection, to witness herself on full display. Petyr pinned her with the full heat of his gaze. 

“I-” She licked her lips. “I see my c-c-” The word seemed to stick in her throat.

“Cunt,” Petyr furnished. 

“Cunt.”

“Good girl.” The tension in Sansa’s shoulders seemed to lighten with the praise, and Petyr made a note of that for the future. He bent down over her splayed form — brushing a hand down her arm as if to guide her actions — whispering a low, gravelly request into her ear. “Sweetling, I want you to touch yourself. Explore with your fingers, and tell me how you feel.”

Sansa shivered — from her own nudity, the chill in the winter air, from him. Maybe all three. Petyr’s hand remained lightly on her elbow as her fingers began a tentative exploration towards the pink gash that flaunted itself in the mirror. She found that she was unable to look away, enthralled with the image that stared back at her. It was like looking at someone else. A degree of separation which allowed her to observe from an outside perspective. She had never dared view herself so intimately before, and the way he watched, pure rapt attention as she ran her fingers over the bumps and ridges and clefts of her sex. It was almost unnerving. Did the man never blink?

_Oh!_

That felt amazing. She ran her fingers over the spot again, and again she felt that tingle run through her — like velvet coursing up her spine.

At her little mewl, Petyr’s hand traveled lower, clasping over her wrist. “Did you like that just now?”

In her focus on the act she was performing, Sansa had completely forgotten that she was supposed to be describing the sensation. Her answer was breathy. “Yes. There was a sweet point-”

“Show me in the mirror.”

Her fingers descended again, finding a little hooded peak, and she let her index graze over it again. “Here,” she said with a small catch to her voice.

Petyr’s fingers slid further down, covering her own, and he met her there, directing her motions — little concentric circles that built one on top of the other, faster and faster. “That’s your clit, sweet girl. That’s the source of your pleasure.” 

Sansa closed her eyes. The combined efforts of their ministrations sending twitters of exhilaration from the tip of her head all the way to her toes. The effect was dizzying, making her muscles clench in anticipation. When she proposed this, she had no idea. Oh, what a little novice she’d been. Not for the first time, she was happy that it was Petyr there guiding her.

“Open your eyes, Sansa.”

Her head turned instinctively towards the sound of his voice. Warm, moist air caressed her lips, and when she opened her eyes, she realized the man had knelt at her side. His eyes were dark, noses almost brushing. They were both panting. She could see her own manic gaze mirrored in his. She could taste the mint on his breath.

“Are you close?” he asked, his eyes tearing into her, devouring her every inch.

“I- I’m not sure” Sansa gasped. “Maybe?” 

This was absolute torture. Sansa Stark — a more perfect image of mother — bare and flushed, on the cusp of climax. Her cunt was sopping beneath his fingers, and getting wetter with each pass as they worked together in tandem. All it would take is one slip a little further than the others and he could sheath his fingers in her, feel the plush warmth of her as she pulsed around his digits. It happened without warning. He slicked into her past the first knuckle, and just as quickly retreated. The motion caught the girl off guard, a choked cry emitting from her throat. 

Her voice cracked. “D- Do that again.”

Were lovelier words ever spoken?

Again, Petyr dipped into her, filling her — in, out — over and over. Always pressing that hidden, spongy point that so few men seemed to notice. Gods, she felt amazing. Warm, silken, tight as her walls fought against him. He had thought his cock couldn’t stiffen more, but the sucking sounds of her cunt around his digits had him ready to burst at the seams. The desire to take her, to bury himself balls deep was slowly consuming all rational thought. Then, her walls fluttered, signaling their intent. 

Reality fell away as it overcame her. Sansa shook; her body no longer her own. The drum of her pulse pounding, drowning out all sound. She felt lightheaded, unable to catch her breath as the world came back into view. She felt a thin sheen of sweat over her chest, down her stomach. Her throat felt dry, scratchy. She deduced she must have cried out. When, she finally opened her eyes, she saw only mossy green. 

Petyr.

_Petyr Petyr Petyr_

She let out a giggle as his name chimed through her head, sure they made quite the sight together.

He’d situated himself between her legs, his eyes hungry. “How do you feel?”

“Relaxed,” she hummed. The smile she’d been trying to suppress growing wide. “‘S nice.”

A toothy grin dimpled his face as he recognized those words. Words oft remembered on the heels of pleasant memory. “Never masturbated, hmm? Never had an orgasm?” He pinched her sides, and she laughed. “Saucy minx,” he chided.

Wrapping her arms about his neck, she mocked, “Why, Mr. Baelish, are you calling me a liar?”

“No.” He shook his head, and pulled her body closer. “But you’re quite the actress.”

She beamed. “Does that mean I have a job?”

Lips meshed together — a promise sealed with a kiss. “Oh, sweetling, by the time I’m through, you’ll have everything.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, if it isn’t the cat who got the cream.”

The sour expression on Ros’s face wasn’t enough to wipe away Petyr’s own shit-eating grin.

“Don’t give me that look, Ros.”

“You just had to do it didn’t you. She’s just a kid.”

Petyr grabbed the packet of mint gum from the top of Ros’s desk before collapsing into a nearby chair, hooking a leg over one arm as he sank down into the seat. “We were all kids once.” He unwrapped a stick and popped it in his mouth. 

“Real compassionate.” Ros gave a sigh of resignation before slouching in her own chair. “So I take it the audition went well then?”

“She’s perfect.” The two fingers that had less than an hour before coaxed the most exquisite music from Sansa Stark’s throat brushed lightly under his nose. He permitted himself the luxury of smelling the essence that lingered there. “A fucking natural.”

His assistant missed nothing. Her face stern, voice stringent. “Jesus, Petyr, please tell me you didn’t sample the wares.”

“I didn’t dip my pen, if that’s what you mean.” His fingers wiggled as his dimples deepened in amusement. “Just tested the ink.”

Lips twisted up in disgust. “Need I remind you of the company policy _you_ put in place. Inter-office romance is forbidden — especially with performers! It just complicates everything. The only fucking anyone gets to do around here is in front of a camera.”

Petyr straightened in his seat, his face now serious. “You don’t need to remind me, Ros.” 

“Good.” She tilted her head, her tone high and accusing. “Because you’ve never done that with any of the other auditions. If she is going to become an issue, it’s better to stop it now before it starts.”

Ros was right, of course, which was one of the myriad reasons he kept her close. In this profession, the line between true intimacy and sex was the equivalent of walking a tight rope. A select few could balance it, but most couldn’t. A jealous spouse on set affected performance. Guilt and shame ruined promising careers. It was somewhat more tolerable between two performers, but between a performer and someone off camera? That was a powder keg.

“Back off, Ros. I know what I’m doing, or did you forget who built this studio?” he asked pointedly. Ros did him the courtesy of almost looking repentant at his reprimand — almost being the keyword. Petyr refused to let her know-it-all self get the upper hand. Yes, there was more to this girl than the others, but it didn’t mean anything. He’d use Sansa Stark to get ahead, just as he used everyone else. “As a matter of fact, I already know just the project I want to do with her.” He arced his hands through the air, imaging the marquee in his mind. “The Wizard of Ahhhhhs!”

Head tilted in derision. “The Wizard of Oz?”

“Ahhhs, Ros. A full length feature with scripts and sets, costumes and actual dialogue.” He waved his hand to and fro. “ Interspersed between the normal gratuitous nudity and sex, of course.”

The redhead’s lips puckered as she weighed the potential revenue versus cost in her head. “It could work. She's got that innocent lost kitten look about her. We’ll have to do something with her hair though. Dorothy’s brunette in case you forgot.”

“Throw a wig on her. Dye it as a last resort,” he agreed.

Seemingly satisfied, Ros grabbed her pen and pad, awaiting his instruction in the matter. “Where do we start?” she sighed.

“I need you to get Tyrion on the phone for me asap. I want a basic outline hammered out before the end of the week. And I need you to put together a short list for the necessary roles.” Ros scribbled them into her notes. “We’ll need a scarecrow, tinman, lion… Oh! Flying monkeys!” He cupped his hands before his chest. “Big tits, Ros. Real knockers.” She rolled her eyes. “Also, the good witch and the wizard. That should cover it.”

She examined the list, ticking off the parts on her fingers as she recalled the story in her head. “You forgot one.”

He smirked knowingly. “Did I?”

“The wicked witch,” Ros snapped.

Petyr’s lips curled devilishly as he reclined in his seat. “And here I thought I was looking at her.”

Ros threw her pen down at that, giving him an exasperated, “Oh, fuck you, Petyr.” She charged out of her chair to the studio’s exit — cigarettes in hand.

“What?!” He called after her, laughing. The very idea of how much green paint they’d have to use for her nude scenes sending him into fits. “I thought you’d like it! You always said green was your color!”

* * *

Song and dance; the consummate salesman was Petyr Baelish. While he was amply equipped to fund his own projects these days, he’d found there were perks of allowing certain select members of the niche artistic (read: kink) community to put up capital for one of his skin flicks. Namely, if the film went bust, he wasn’t out a dime.

So after discussing filming logistics and plot with Tyrion, Petyr called his most avid investors to set up a meeting. Anticipating their penchant for copious amounts of drugs, liquor, and scantily clad women (and men), he set up the time at their favorite night spot, pulled strings with the owner, Steve (who owed him more than a few favors), and managed to get a private booth reserved.

Petyr had just pulled on his blazer and adjusted the chain around his neck when he heard the entrance to the studio slam. He’d sent Sansa off with a stack of cash, one of the studio’s security detail to escort her, and a mission yesterday: find an outfit to entice.

Flipping off the lights, he stepped out of his office, adjusting the cuffs of his gold silk button-up where they just peeked out beneath. His heart caught in his throat as he looked up, taking in the vision before him.

He blinked, dumbfounded. “Wow.”

The girl staring back at him was practically unrecognizable. Her long auburn tresses were swept into an updo, a few errant tendrils curling loosely about her face. Her eyes rimmed in blackest black, a dazzling purple adorning her lids, making her blue blue eyes electrifying. The pure white, sleeveless, wide-legged Halston jumpsuit she wore hung off her like a second skin, plunging dangerously low — a deep vee that extended to the top of her navel — giving him a delicious view of creamy skin; a golden tassel dangling precariously between her lovely mounds practically begging to be pulled aside so that he could nibble at the flesh there. 

Sansa smiled, bit her glossy lips before walking toward him — the little peaks of her unbound breasts furling with each brush and sway of the material loosely draped over them — her hands finding purchase at the lapels of the man frozen in place. Head tilted as she examined the simple chain around his neck. Slender fingers lifted the medallion that sat just below the hollow of his throat. 

“I remember this. You still wear it.” Eyes flashed up, catching his own.

Petyr swallowed, throat dry. “I always wear it for business.” He plucked it from her grasp, the tiny brush of his digits sending a wave of heat into her face.

“Business?” Of course it was business. Sansa was a fool to think it was anything but.

“Yes.” Petyr coughed. “We’re meeting with investors for the project you’ll be staring in. I need to show you off a bit to pique their interest.”

A silent ‘o’ formed on her lips as she took a step back, the confidence in her demeanor withering. Petyr could see all sorts of sordid thoughts flickering through her mind. What tasks would be placed at her feet? Would she be asked to sleep with these strangers to secure the financing? He didn’t wait to soothe her frayed imagination.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do anything,” he assuaged her unvoiced concerns. “Just laugh at their terrible jokes, permit a few dances, indulge them in a shared drink or two, and smile.”

Shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Nothing else?” And the unasked question: _I don’t have to sleep with them?_

His hands reached out of their own accord, thumbs stroking the soft, exposed skin of her upper arms. “Nothing else,” he affirmed. “This is just a formality, really. They’d probably fund the damn thing even if you weren’t there. You’re just the icing on the cake.” Petyr grinned. He hoped it was reassuring.

The promise must have alleviated some of her worry. The lines that etched her face lightened. She sighed with relief, taking his arm, that much missed smile he’d seen only a day ago brightening her features. “Well, then. Shall we go?”

* * *

Flagrant decadence, moral ambiguity, the free exchange of sex and drugs and all manner of deviancy — the hallmarks of a proper discotheque. In that, Studio 54 was the very epitome of excess. Petyr supposed that’s why Oberyn and Renly liked it so well. Everyone was a friend and (with enough drugs and alcohol) they were lovers, too.

Petyr watched in amusement as Sansa’s eyes bulged, taking in the over the top splendor. There were no secrets here, no shameful indulgences. The club’s elaborate lighting revealed all the hedonistic acts that would normally be hidden in shadow: lines of coke openly displayed as people lined up to snort each in turn, men dancing with men, women dancing with women, the depraved vocalizations of the woman one level above clearly getting her fill from some other lucky club goer.

Prying her anxious grip off his arm, Petyr ushered her deeper into the depravity, his hand settling on the small of her back. As she took her cue, stepping nervously out in front of him, he found himself entranced. The lascivious ensemble she wore dipped low, exposing every curve and ridge of her vertebrae, her milk white skin dabbed with the barest smattering of freckles. Lickable, kissable little constellations that he wanted to explore with his mouth. He barely contained the growl at the back of his throat from the image in his head of Sansa Stark laid out on his bed, all that fiery hair splayed as he traced each one with his tongue.

The sage advice of Ros rattled in his head. _If it’s going to become an issue…_

Goddammit. 

In the winding threads of what could potentially undo him, this girl — barely a woman — hadn’t registered as a threat. Not until now. It was one thing to work with the innocent, naive woman-child he remembered, and quite another to see her in full bloom. Sansa was beyond exquisite. A veritable goddess for whom men would fall to their knees. And that’s why he had to dig in his heels. He couldn’t back out now. All he had to do was look at the hungry gaze of the men (and some of the women) they passed to see the heat there. The desire to know who this vision was, and the darker thoughts — how to lure such beauty into their own beds. She was a treasure trove of potential, an unpracticed temptress. He need only draw it out of her, train her. She would conquer them all with a bat of her lashes. That was power. It was an allure he would need to resist if he was going to wield it.

Approaching their destination, Petyr could see their guests had already arrived. Oberyn Martell had a petite, sun-kissed blonde bombshell sprawled over his lap — his tongue dancing daringly along the curve of her neck and collarbone. Another woman, curly brunette hair licking the tanned skin of her shoulders, sat next to them, her own hands playing beneath the blonde’s sequinned top. Renly Baratheon, meanwhile, had his arm casually draped over the back of the seat next to a tall, muscular boy toy — shirt noticeably absent — who was hoovering a line of coke up his nose. They all craned their necks up at their host’s entrance.

“Gentlemen!” And as an afterthought, “And ladies.” The blonde giggled at being recognized. The brunette leaned back languidly. “I see you’re already taking advantage of my hospitality.”

“Littlefinger! No one treats us half so well as you, my friend. Such gifts are hard to resist,” he said, nuzzling the top of a breast before reclining his head. “And who might this lovely angel be?”

“Alayne,” Sansa spouted, holding out her hand, lips pressed into a coy grin. “Alayne Stone.”

The pseudonym was his idea. The name Stark was too well known, and if she ever decided she wanted to get out of the industry, it would be easier without any baggage attached to her real name. It was common practice. Ros went by Foxy Roxy. Armeca was Asia Pound. Chataya only went as Sultana. It also served a secondary function of keeping potential stalkers at bay, though he paid a hefty fee to ensure the security of the girls who worked for him regardless.

Renly was the first to reach her, their eyes met over her knuckles as he pressed a chaste kiss to her skin. “Enchanté, cherie.” 

Petyr didn’t miss the bashful dip of her head at the attention. There was a clawing at his heart, even as he knew it was foolish to feel the pangs of jealousy. For one, Renly had zero interest in the opposite sex, no matter what facade he wore out in public, outside these hallowed walls. And two, Sansa wasn’t his. She worked for him, nothing more. Still, he had to fight to unclench the fist at his side.

Releasing his grip, Renly commented, “I assume this is the budding starlet you were talking about?”

Flashing his most amiable smile, “Yes, indeed. She’s going to set the film world on fire.”

“You’ve already convinced me, Littlefinger,” Oberyn said as he palmed his erection openly.

A beet red flush traveled the length of her chest up to her ears next to Petyr. He laughed, pulled her closer into his side.

“And she still blushes!” Oberyn barked. “What a treat! Where in the world did you find such a gift?”

“You know I have to keep some secrets,” teased Petyr. “What say we dismiss your friends and get business over with?”

“Of course, of course. Business before pleasure.” 

Oberyn slid the blonde of his lap, tucking a few generous bills into her top. Renly merely shooed his own plaything off and Petyr and Sansa slid into the now unoccupied seat. The brunette remained, legs crossed, head leaned nonchalantly in the palm of her hand. Petyr raised a brow.

The Spaniard noticed the exchange, speaking up quickly. “Ah! How rude of me! Let me introduce you to my wife, Ellaria.” 

She extended her arm across the table, across the lines of cocaine and the Dornish liquor that her husband favored. “A pleasure.” It came out a purr.

“Wife?” Petyr said just as his lips grazed darkened flesh.

“Don’t get any ideas, Littlefinger.” He pulled his wife into him, planting a kiss beneath her ear. “This woman is mine. My true match — in everything,” he added with licentious, toothy grin. One Ellaria easily replicated as her hands traveled to explore the still hardened length between his legs.

“I see. Who am I to question true love?” He lifted a hand to flag down the nearest waitress, ordering for himself and Sansa — now Alayne.

“So tell us, Littlefinger, you said this new project of yours will reinvent adult film,” Renly said as he readjusted in his seat.

Petyr sipped at the amber drink in his hand. “It will. Something never done before. A pornographic parody.”

“A what?” the young Baratheon snorted.

“I want to do a parody of a beloved Judy Garland classic. Shiny red shoes, yellow roads and all that.” By the way Renly sat forward in his seat, Petyr knew he had him hooked.

“Fuck me,” said Renly, all astonishment. “You want to do the The Wizard of fucking Oz as a porno!” He roared, laughter shaking his whole body. Once the tremors racking him calmed, he looked seriously at Petyr sitting placid, still. “You are serious, aren’t you? How the hell are you going to get around the copyright?”

“Parody is considered fair use under the law. Even one cloaked in sin.” Petyr stated matter-of-factly.

“I like it,” Ellaria cut in. Raking her eyes over Alayne not at all subtly. “She has the look of innocence about her. Imagine watching her journey from naive little virgin to well fucked vixen. I bet she looks striking as she comes. All that red hair and pale skin. Mmmm.” She licked her lips. “Tell me sweet girl, have you ever been with a woman?”

“Ellaria…” warned Oberyn.

She pouted. “What? I was only asking.”

Alayne — Sansa — for her part didn’t appear nonplussed. “I have.” Petyr fought not to whip his head in shock. “I had a friend — close friend — back in school.” The smirk she wore was anything but innocent. “Jeyne and I would… experiment… from time to time. Unfortunately, I think she got more out of it than I did. I’m not opposed to sharing a scene with a woman, but it’s not really my bag.”

There was a twitch between Petyr’s legs, his cock eager to know how much, if any, of what she said was true.

The other woman’s face was sullen. “What a shame. But I can’t expect everyone to be as… open with their affections.”

“Now that Ellaria’s curiosity is sated,” joked Oberyn, “how much do we need to contribute to get this production off the ground?”

* * *

Business was settled quickly; both investors eagerly throwing their money at the chance to create something exciting and different. Oberyn and Ellaria lured Sansa to the dance floor after she inhaled a taste of celebratory blow (provided by Petyr. He didn’t trust the shit that ran rampant about the club). Renly had fucked off to likely get off with his companion from earlier. 

Petyr watched Sansa alone from his seat, tumbler in his hand, his blood pumping hotly after his own bump. She writhed, sandwiched between husband and wife, each of them taking small liberties — brushing their hands down her sides, pulling her hips into theirs, placing dry pecks to her neck and shoulders. It wasn’t the safe, organized dancing romanticized in films like Saturday Night Fever. This was far more lurid; fueled on inebriation, lost inhibitions, and lust. Sansa’s porcelain skin glistened from the sweltering heat of the room with each swing of her hips and arms, but she was smiling, moving with efficient grace, redirecting their hands with polished ease when they strayed too far. Everything about her bewitching the audience around her. 

And that’s why she was going to be a star. Sansa wasn’t just _dancing_. She was _performing_ whether she was aware of it or not. From the breezy sway of her hair — now tumbling down, hiding the gorgeous expanse of her back — to the bend of her knees, the way she positioned her ass just so, her breasts jutting out. A position poised for sex, entreating to be taken hard and rough. He could still remember her kittenish moans, the whispery cries as her pleasure finally overcame her. Sansa was everything he knew she could be and more. 

So why the hell did he want to yank her off that floor and drag her out of here? 

_”Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven…”_ The crowd roared, chaotic excitement washing over the room just as Renly plopped down next to him, looking well and truly fucked. 

“What are they counting down?” asked Petyr. 

Smiling broadly, Renly yelled over the commotion. “Time for the glitter shower!” 

He hadn’t heard him. “The what?!” 

As the question left his lips, sparkles rained down from the rafters. Gold and silver twinkles coating the masses on the dance floor like ethereal snow. Grey-green eyes immediately sought out Sansa amid the throng, and there she was looking like a goddamn angel. Dressed in that white flowing fabric, shaking the stardust out of her hair as she laughed good naturedly, her cheeks, shoulders and chest flushed and bespeckled, refracting the lights from above like a tantalizing little nymph. 

His feet carried him over, his hand finding hers, pulling her towards the nearest exit. “We need to go.” 

“Already?” Sansa’s smile faded fractionally, her feet shuffling to keep up. 

“Baelish! Where are you going?” Oberyn called out in exasperation, shrugging his shoulders and resuming his dance with Ellaria when Petyr didn’t respond. 

There must have been something written, etched in his face. The crushing mass of bodies easily parted, a sea of glitter swirling as his swift feet guided them out of the club, past the queue of hopefuls still awaiting entry for a night of debauchery, all the way out to his car — the limo he had rented for the evening. He gave a short nod to the driver — who seemed surprised by the sudden appearance of his fare — and the door was opened. He hastily handed Sansa into the car, following quick on her heels. 

“Petyr, is something-” 

His lips cut off whatever she was about to say, his hands framing her face, the tip of his tongue teasing the part of her lips. When he managed to reign in his control, pulled back, he studied her face. There was surprise there, yes, but also hunger. Her eyes dilated until they were barely rimmed in blue. He swallowed down his hammering heart, his rational brain screaming that this was a bad idea — the _worst_ idea. His voice was a seductive whisper against her swollen, glossy lips, “Is this alright?” 

Sansa’s heart was a battering ram. Petyr watched her pulse flutter, waited what seemed hours, but was in reality seconds, as the angel before him weighed her choice. He knew this was wrong, to want her, to be in a position of authority over her and proposition her as though her entire future didn’t rest on his shoulders. Her face softened, breathing calmed as her hands came to rest on his chest. A push, so gentle he almost didn’t feel it. 

A rejection. 

Sansa licked her lips, eyes downcast. “I- I think that- That perhaps we should keep things… professional. For now.” 

That stung, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t proud of her for it — his clever girl. But those two little words: _For now_. Petyr wasn’t sure whether to count that a comfort or a torture. 

“You’re right,” he breathed, hands falling, distance gained. _Perspective_ gained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- The coke probably…” he trailed off, shaking his head, clarity elusive. Sansa said nothing, sliding to the furthest end of the seat — away from him — lost in her own clouded mind. 

“We should get you home,” he announced. “To Lysa’s?” 

The name broke her out of the trance she’d been enmeshed. “I'm sorry?” 

Petyr tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, even as irritation over her denial bubbled beneath his skin. “Where are you staying? I’ll drop you off.” 

Her gaze scattered, bending forward, hiding behind the curtain of her hair. “Just drop me near the studio. I can walk from there.” 

His bullshit detector was pinging loud. His demeanor softened. “Sansa, where are you staying?” 

“A hotel,” she offered, her arms wrapping around her torso. “Around the corner from studio.” 

“There’s no hotels near my studio, Sansa. Only that roach motel that Frey runs by the hour.” 

Silence. _Fuck_. 

Petyr clasped his hands between his knees, angling to see her face. “Sansa are you staying at The Twins Motel?” 

Blue eyes closed; a wavering nod. 

Petyr rapped at the partition, impatient. Angry. “To The Twins Motel.” 

“Sir?” the driver questioned. 

Tone curt. “You heard me.” 

The air was heavy between them as the limo lumbered its way through traffic — a feat of patience in New York City. Petyr’s gaze was thoughtful, penetrating as he watched Sansa. She, however, seemed engrossed in observing the city pass by. She was avoiding him — speaking, looking. 

“I get why you aren’t staying with Lysa — abominable woman — but why are you in a rat trap like that?” 

She finally looked up. “It’s all I could afford.” 

“What about the inheritance you were supposed to come into? I know Ned and Cat weren’t millionaires, but certainly they left you with something?” 

Sansa huffed. “It’s gone.” 

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” 

“Lysa emptied the accounts. Mom and Dad, they didn’t have a will, and the courts put everything in my name, but named Lysa as custodian over everything. She blew it all. I didn’t even know until after she kicked me out.” Sansa laughed, a heartbreaking tremulous thing. 

Petyr felt his anger rise with every word that passed her lips. Lysa-fucking-Tully, the jealous bint. Couldn’t help but ruin her own sister’s daughter. Was he any better though? Letting her enter into this life. _She chose this life_ , he reminded himself. Except, did she? Would she have chosen _this_ if she had other options? He rubbed his temples, conscience (one thing he’d never been accused of having) trying to reconcile with the reality of Sansa’s situation. 

The limo’s brakes squeaked as it skidded to a stop in the pitted parking lot. Sansa reached for handle of her door to exit, halted midway by his. “Gimme your key. I’m going to collect your things.” 

“Petyr, I’m already paid through the week.” 

“I don’t care,” he growled. “You’re not staying here.” 

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she argued. 

“Yes, you do.” 


	3. Chapter 3

That first morning, after Petyr had rolled out of bed to a rousing noise which wrenched him from deep slumber, he had already forgotten bringing the girl into his home. His head was fuzzy from too much alcohol and blow; the raging hard-on that bobbed between his legs sucking away all the oxygen rich blood that was normally reserved for his brain as he went out to investigate the sound. He hadn’t even the clarity of mind to pull on a shirt, naked save for his boxers as he stumbled out of his bedroom and into the domesticity of Sansa wearing nothing but a long t-shirt in the middle of his kitchen. 

As Sansa flit about inspecting the contents of the cabinets, she finally noticed the new player who’d entered the scene, her head popping up from where she’d been leaning over to grab a frying pan. An auburn brow arched as she took in his condition, her voice amused and knowing, “Well good morning to you, too.”

It was then, Petyr realized he had been absent-mindedly palming his erection. “Shit.” He blinked, shaking his head to clear it, grabbing for the nearest object to cover said preoccupation (the newspaper in this case). “Sorry. Forgot you were here.”

“It’s okay,” she laughed, a brilliant teasing thing. “I think I can forgive you this once. Especially, since you’re putting me up.”

The evening came flooding back. The discotheque. The business pitch. The overly indulgent investors. Sansa shimmering like an angel, surrounded by sin. Soft, glossy lips that succumbed to him for half a heartbeat before letting him down easy. _For now_. He could still feel the residual tackiness, the lingering sweetness of cherries, as he bit and licked his own. 

He must be quite a sight, he realized.

Running a hand through his curly locks disheveled from sleep, he nodded, trying to avoid letting his gaze linger on any one point of the expanse of her long legs, nor on her unbound breasts with tips pebbled from the slight morning chill. “I, uh…” His tongue didn’t want to cooperate, feet shuffling towards the bathroom, the funny pages doing a piss poor job of hiding his morning wood from view. “Need a shower.”

“Okay.” Sansa demurred, eyes averted but sparkling. He made to shut the door, but she called out, “I was going to make some breakfast. You like scrambled eggs?”

Petyr stared out from the opening, deathgrip on the jamb as he took in the vision set before him — Sansa lightly fisting and twirling a spatula between both hands, delicately nibbling her bottom lip questioningly. He stood there like a slack-jawed yokel before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” finally passed his lips. “Scrambled is fine.”

She beamed at him. “Good.” 

He watched as she pivoted on agile feet, a little bow of her head in acknowledgement. Watched as she leant over to pluck the eggs from his refrigerator. Watched as the hem of that thin piece of cotton she wore crept up and up until he could see the skimpy underthings she wore. The pink material clung to her cheeks; a second skin that revealed more and more the further she bent until he could make out the tantalizing outline of her…

The door slammed, and Petyr pressed himself into the wall, short of breath. The Family Circus found the tile floor as his hands shot up, the palms of which slid over his face, back up through his hair. God! By his response to her, you’d think he was a fucking teenager!

The fire in his blood was raging, dick straining to break out of his boxers, until Petyr finally dropped trow. He stroked himself to the sound of Sansa’s musical voice as she sang over the stove in the next room. He had half a mind to bolt back in there, bend her over the counter and thrust until he was utterly, utterly spent. Until the sound of her sweet sighs were broken and raw and she was languid and sated and _his_. It was that last thought that finally ripped the orgasm from him; the muscles of his arm taut, movement jagged as his hand relentless worked, tearing wave after wave of pleasure from him until his balls finally — gratefully — popped their release. He muffled a groan, biting into his lip; the slight taste of copper spreading over his tongue. When he finally opened his eyes, the pearlescent sheen of his cum was dripping down the opposite wall. 

_Fucking hell_. Perhaps now he could get more than three consecutive words out. That was hope at any rate.

Petyr’s legs quaked as he leaned down, picked up a rag lying atop the pile of dirty linens in the hamper. He used it to wipe away the evidence. It was only as the endorphins grip on him eased that he realized the cloth in his hand was blue and not green like the rest of his bath towels. He held the item out in front of him.

Baby blue cotton undies in a delightful cut — now coated in him.

What a pretty fucking picture.

* * *

After Petyr emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, he found the small breakfast table set up, their plates already stacked with food, and Sansa just buttoning a pair of skin tight bell bottoms; the long t-shirt she’d slept in discarded in favor of a flowy, chiffon blouse that displayed creamy shoulders, all the glitter from the previous evening gone. She must have showered before tucking into the sofa last night. It explained the casually flung panties he found in the bathroom. The ones now clutched amidst his own boxers as he breezed past her and into his own room.

Sansa was waiting patiently for him, a cup of coffee in hand. “You didn’t have any milk, so I hope you like it black.”

“Perfect.” Petyr tentatively sipped — hmming, somewhat surprised that it was a damn decent cup of coffee — and gifted her a wink over the rim of his mug. She blushed. Fucking delightful. Not for the first time, he mused on how the hell he was supposed to resist this divine fucking temptress; especially now that she was occupying his home.

Some remnant of chivalric custom left over from his youth kicked in and he found himself helping Sansa into her seat before he knew what he was doing. Shaking off the sudden influx of memories of helping her mother the same way, he settled into his own, letting the quiet overtake the room. The plate in front of him clanked as he stabbed at the eggs, the fork pushing them to and fro as he gathered them up with a bit of tomato to shovel into his mouth. They were a bit drier than he liked, but he wasn’t about to chide Sansa after she’d gone to the trouble of cooking him breakfast. His hair was still damp, tiny rivulets dripping down his back beneath his shirt, when Sansa broke the silence. “Thank you again, for letting me stay with you. You didn’t have to.”

He chewed. Swallowed before looking up to see her staring at her plate, fork scraping the yellow, eggy pufts into a pile. “Yes, I did. That motel has a reputation. Cat would have risen from her grave to strike me dead if I let you stay there. I’m just sorry I don’t have an extra bed here. I’ll arrange one for the spare room this week.”

“Oh no, no. You don’t have-”

“Yes, I do. That couch is terrible.” He grinned over his plate. “Besides, the last thing I need is my best actress hunched over like some evil crone from a fairy tale as she hobbles down a yellow brick road.” Another bite. Another swallow. The words left his mouth before the caffeine had a chance to kick in. “To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t share the bed with me last night.” _Shit_. Way to remind her of your proposition in the limo, dipshit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” but he saw the heat steal across her cheeks all the same.

“I should apologize about that. I-”

“It’s okay,” she cut in. “It was just the coke, right?”

“Yeah.” _No._

They ate in relative silence after that, each lost in their own heads. But when Sansa’s plate was cleared of food, she pushed it to the side, another question forming on her lips. “So, what happens now? When do we start shooting?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He set his fork to the side, picking up and gesturing with the remaining toast. “I’ve still got to approve the script from Tyrion, casting calls have to be made, sets have to be assembled, and while it may be a porno, we still have to worry about wardrobe. That’ll be a first,” he half-laughed.

“Well I can help with at least one of those.”

“Hmm,” the sound forming around the crunch of buttery bread.

Sansa shot forward in her seat, excited. “I used to sew back before I lived with Aunt Lysa, and I’m pretty good. At least, that’s what everyone used to say. It’d take me no time at all to fashion the costumes we need.”

One eyebrow lifted in amusement. “You want to design the costumes?”

Her head bobbed eagerly. “If it’ll help.”

“Alright,” Petyr acquiesced, her enthusiasm infectious. “But I insist you have some assistance. I’ll send out inquiries to local seamstresses today, and we’ll-”

But before he could continue, Sansa flung herself into his lap with a squeal, arms circling his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” A kiss to his lips, and she was bounding into the kitchen with the dirty plates.

He looked down accusingly to the prominent stiffness now residing in his pants. _Do you mind?_

* * *

**One week later…**

The sets were coming together nicely. Petyr took it all in, his vision slowly coming to fruition. There were a few of the ladies that had come in to have their measurements taken still hanging out, helping the stage crew paint, and set up. Ros had come to him more than once during the week grumbling about the green paint, but stopped her nonsense when she saw the script and realized she was making bank for a blowie and few cackles. 

And the script was surprisingly good given how little time Tyrion had to throw it together. So good, in fact, that Petyr finally decided to let him have his first directorial debut. He was already hard at work helping Shae, a non-native English speaker, with her solitary line. 

Behind closed doors. 

Where very little sound was muffled. 

Petyr would have to scold him for that, even though he wasn’t in a much better position.

Sitting discreetly in a darkened alcove of the studio, script and pen in his hand, he looked for all to see as a man intent on making small corrections. More observant eyes might notice the way his own flickered up from the pages, the way his direct line of sight led straight to auburn hair and sapphire eyes, porcelain skin and legs for days. Sansa was aglow; laughing as she measured and pinned the pieces of her latest creation together. She fit right in; her open manner and inherent kindness winning over most everyone. 

A marvelous addition. 

A troublesome one, too. 

All week, his feet kept finding their way into this little nook in the corner of the studio, his hungry eyes seeking her out as though she might disappear if his gaze strayed for one millisecond. An addiction, she was, and his attraction to her only grew with each day they spent together. Morning, noon, night — there she was with her easy smiles, and innocent looks, and he was drowning in her.

“Ah, Baelish! There you are!” Tyrion called as he trundled up to him.

“Tyrion,” Petyr greeted, his eyes finding paper again. “How was your consultation with Shae?”

A crooked smile lit his face. “Very illuminating.”

“Ya know, I _should_ fire you,” Petyr said, nonplussed.

“Fire me?” Tyrion said aghast. “For what?!”

“Fraternization,” Petyr replied, cool as a cucumber. “I know _you know_ you aren’t supposed to sleep with the talent. I know, because I was very specific when I hired you to direct this flick.”

Air of indifference, Tyrion pulled out a pack of cigarettes, packing them against his palm. “I have no idea to what you refer.”

“The studio is soundproofed. The dressing rooms are not. Or did you not notice how half the crew was avoiding you as you passed?”

Tyrion half-scoffed. “Well, you’re one to talk.”

“Pardon?” A dark brow arched.

“Please. Like you don’t know. Like the crew doesn’t know.” Gesturing past the sound stage to where Sansa was critically circling her work in progress. “You’ve been eyeing that girl like a salivating dog. And I know something is up when Ros refuses to even joke about the prospect. Your Girl Friday is concerned.”

“Nothing is going on,” Petyr stated flatly, eyes flashing to Sansa and back to the pages in his hand.

Bouncing on his heels, Tyrion’s smug voice asked, “Nothing is going on because you’re a strict adherent to your precious rules of conduct? Or nothing is going on because she’s turned you down?”

“Nothing is going on,” Petyr repeated more firmly, doubling down on the excuse sitting in his lap.

“As I thought.” Tyrion finally pulled out a cigarette, lighter igniting the tip to an orangey glow as he inhaled. “And surprising.” The words puffed out on the trail of smoke.

Mossy eyes lifted. “How’s that?”

Tyrion flicked the ashes from the tip of his nicotine fix casually. “She watches you, too.” 

For half a breath, his heart arrested.

* * *

**Two weeks later…**

Giggling. So much giggling.

One of the girls was having a birthday, and Sansa insisted on having a small get together at the studio. Petyr allowed it, figuring it would be a good release for everyone after all the hard work that had been put in to getting this production off the ground. The party had wound down for the most part, but a few of the girls still hung out, passing a joint around as they lazed on their backs in a half completed poppy field. Petyr hated to break up their fun, but it was getting late, and he needed to lock up soon.

He’d purposely kept his distance throughout, not wanting to dampen anyone’s fun as the boss who couldn’t take a hint, but he couldn’t help but linger in the shadows as their conversation drifted.

“Alright, now. Your turn, Sansa!” An enthusiastic goad as the blonde sat up on her knees, passing the torch to his new starlet.

The red head in question reached out to take it, crossing her legs Indian style as she demurred. “It’s not that interesting, I swear.” Petyr could hear the underlying tension in her voice.

“Come on! It’s a right of passage for us girls! And it could not be worse than mine. I mean, how many girls lose their virginity to a guy that proceeds to throw up on their back!”

A round of cackles and _ewws_ , and the continued calls to _spill, spill_.

Sansa threw up her hands. “Fine, fine! But you’ll just be disappointed.” She inhaled from the bud in her hand, and Petyr watched, rapt as the threads of smoke exited her lungs after a long pause. “I was fifteen.” If she didn’t have his attention before, she certainly had it now.

“You hussy!” Some unfamiliar voice joked.

Sansa laughed, throwing an unaffixed poppy at the wisecracker, before continuing. “He was older. _Much_ older.” And Petyr noticed the beginnings of a smile forming. “He sort of stumbled upon me, and we just sort of had this weird connection. I don’t know how to describe it. But… He was so gentle.”

“Ooooh, sounds romantic. Like those bodice rippers my gran used to read.” The statement was greeted with a few approving murmurs.

“What did he look like?” called another.

Sansa bit her lip, even as the grin formed. “Handsome.”

“Oh, come on. You gotta give us more that than, girlie!”

A laugh as she acceded. “Dark hair. His eyes were silver in the moonlight. Soft lips.”

“Big _muscles_?” Petyr could almost hear the waggle of the girl’s eyebrows, as she was clearly not referring to muscles.

“Not especially, but… well built.” He watched as she shivered before finally passing the joint along. He almost believed her. “It was amazing,” she added with a truncated smile.

“And what happened after?” 

“I fell asleep. He was gone in the morning.” Almost an afterthought. “I never heard from him again.”

A collective, _oh_ of disappointment.

“Well, it’s a good memory at least, right?” The accent sounded like Shae.

“Definitely.” Though it sounded a little forlorn.

Petyr listened in the shadows for another few minutes as one girl told her own raunchy tale of getting pinned to the wall of her high school gymnasium by the football captain with a wee little twig, before he felt it was safe to call an end to the evening.

“Sorry, ladies.” He stepped into the circle of their little coven. “It’s time to wrap it up. I’ve got an early morning, as do some of you.”

The declaration was met with groans and complaints, but they all gathered themselves up. Petyr’s eyes connected with Sansa’s, and she looked almost bashful as she picked herself up off the floor. 

“Well, I had a blast!” declared the birthday girl who threw her arms around Sansa. “Thank you for this. I would have just spent tonight eating ice cream and watching The Brady Bunch otherwise.”

“You’re welcome.” And her tone suggested she was completely sanguine. “We all need to do this again sometime.”

“Absolutely,” the girl confirmed. “You need a ride home?”

“No, no. I’m covered. Thanks though.” Looking to Petyr, “Actually, though, I just remembered something I need to do real quick back in wardrobe. You mind waiting for me, Mr. Baelish?”

Without waiting for his reply, Sansa swept around, making a quick trot towards the back of the building. Sly creature. It really was a wonder that no one had figured out she was living with him yet. While she dithered, Petyr saw all the girls out, locked the side entrance tight before following the path she took.

Sansa saw him in the vanity mirror as he approached. “All gone?”

“Yeah.”

She bent to grab her things from beneath the table, but when she turned Petyr was lodged, unmoving in the doorway, arms crossed, a curious expression on his face.

“Ya know, I don’t recall sleeping with you that night.” Hooded eyes looked up from where his head tilted down. “That seems like the sort of thing a man remembers.”

The strap of her purse twisted between her fingers. “You heard.”

“I heard.”

Sansa took a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to ruin anybody’s fun and it just… seemed preferable to the truth.” She shrugged.

“And what’s the truth?”

“You really want to know?” she half-laughed with a derisive eye-roll, shifting her weight to rest against the vanity's edge.

His reply was earnest. “I want to know everything about you.”

Sansa licked her lips, and Petyr swore he tasted cherries. “The truth is… I was an idiot. Aunt Lysa was on another one of her drunken tirades, and I was upset. I called someone who I thought cared about me to pick me up. I should have known the second he took me to a hotel...” She shook her head, barking out a mirthless laugh.

“Joffrey.” 

“Joffrey,” Sansa confirmed. “He told me he loved me. Said he wanted to marry me, and like a fool, I lapped it all up.” She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “I woke up to the hotel manager beating down the door. Joffrey was gone. He’d left a fifty on the table for me.

“But that wasn’t the worst of it. I thought — even with the evidence mounting — I thought it had to be a misunderstanding.” Petyr was frozen in place as her tale unfolded, knowing all too well how it would end. Hadn’t he been through the same? “I took that fifty, and I grabbed a cab to his office building. Didn’t even have to get out of the car. When it pulled up, Joffrey was coming out. He had his arm around some girl — perfect makeup, perfect hair, perfect dress, very clearly well off — and I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. But then-” She sighed, watery eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Then, she reached up to kiss him, and on her left hand I see the biggest fuck off diamond.” She shrugged, eyes closed. “And that’s when I knew. I was whore, just like my aunt said. Ironic that giving myself to the guy I thought loved me turned me into what I swore I’d never be.”

He stepped away from the door, letting his arms fall to his sides. “You’re not a whore, Sansa.”

“Oh, you’re right. Sorry. I’m an ‘actress’.” The air quotations drilled home her distaste for the term. 

His fingers curled, fisting at his sides. Jaw quirked as he tongued a molar, in decision. Maybe he was right the night he kissed her. Maybe she didn’t really want this. The words tumbled out. “Feel free to quit at any time.”

“What?” Her shock matched his own. Why the hell did he say that? She tossed her hair back, eyes blinking wildly. “That’s not- I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t appreciate the opportunity, but let’s call a spade a spade. I’m having sex for money. What’s the difference?”

“You’re not just having sex for money.” He was standing directly in front of her now. Only one step more and he’d be between her thighs. A dangerous position. “Anyone can go out on a street corner and let some poor sod pay them for the privilege of thrusting into oblivion. That’s not what I hired you to do.” One hand cupped the air before him, eyes a silent intense flame as they drilled into her own. “I hired you to sell the fantasy. Hundreds — if not thousands — of men are going to go into a theater, and see this film. They’re going to see it, and they’re going to wish it was them between those gorgeous fucking legs. It’ll be you they dream about, you they fist their hapless cocks to, your sighs they imagine when they close their eyes. There’s a certain power in that, and one that very few can wield. But you can. I know,” he asserted.

Did she realize how her legs parted at his nearness? At his words? Her eyes smoldered, tongue darting out to moisten dry lips. “Is that why you’re always watching me when you think I don’t notice? Are you dreaming of me?” 

_Oh, sweetling._

A step and Petyr was anchored between her thighs, his arms braced to either side of her, eyes piercing. “Ever since that first night,” he rasped, and the shiver she gave him was real; not the play acting from before. Leaning in, lips a drag against her jaw, “You have no idea how many endless nights I closed my eyes, hearing those delectable little moans you make. Imagining you as you writhe against me. Remembering just how perfectly you felt in my lap. How fucking sweet you tasted on my fingers.”

His blood was boiling by the time he pulled back, and he saw Sansa’s eyes were alight with the same fire, the pulse at her neck racing, cheeks flushed. 

"I wonder," he whispered, eyes hooded as he raked over her features from steamy blues depths to mauve tinted lips. "Do you have the same dream?"

A petal soft tongue darted out, a curious flick of her gaze down to his own grazed; that was all it took. Petyr's finely crafted resolve shattered, the hardness of his mouth slashing across hers with abandon. Only this time she didn’t push him away, her hands tangling themselves in his hair as she met him action for action. His grip found her hips, lifted and pulled her in closer, closer, until he knew she could feel every inch of him as he rocked against her sex. Her accompanying moans pushing him to madness. Their mouths parted with a wet smack and he trailed his lips down her neck, biting at the join of her shoulder, delirious as the taste of her skin blanketed his tongue.

The table jostled from their efforts, wooden legs creaking as it was repeatedly rammed into the wall behind them. Jars and containers tipping, crashing. Acceptable casualties as they both lost control, melting into one another. 

A voice cleared. It filled the room, but Petyr was too lost in Sansa’s embrace, in the way her body wrapped around him just so.

“Mmm hmmm!” This time it was loud enough to wrench him free from the grip of lust. Sansa’s eyes wide when he dared to lift his head from where it had been buried. His neck swiveled to the direction her gaze was pinned.

A very agitated Ros glared, accusation writ on her face. 

_Shit_. 

Petyr jumped back as if burned, cleared his throat even as guilt seeped from his every pore.

“I knew it,” she exclaimed. “You fucking idiot.”

Slicking back his hair, “Ros, I-”

“No.” She held up a finger like a scolding school marm as she made her way to Sansa. “I don’t want to fucking hear it, Pete. Come on, Sansa. I’m taking you home.”

The girl went willingly, but froze mid step as Ros announced her intentions. Ros tugged at her arm. “Well, come on. What’s wrong?”

“I-” Mouth snapped shut. Blue eyes flashed to Petyr’s face, and quickly dropped. Ros saw it all. The silent communication there, the way that horny son of bitch’s jaw tensed, the way he turned to face the wall to avoid the judgement on his assistant’s face.

“Jesus Christ.” She rubbed at her temple. What a fucking headache. “Please tell me you aren’t staying with him.”

The incriminating look they shared told Ros all she needed to know. She dug into her purse until fingers fetched the telling jingle, holding them out to Sansa. “Here’s the key to the front door. Go wait in my car.” 

The disoriented girl’s hand prevaricated, and Ros lost her patience, snatching it from where it hovered and forcefully pressed the keys into her palm. “Go. _Now_.”

One more quick glance to Petyr and Sansa was fleeing the scene, shamefaced.

Ros looked angry enough to spit. “Damn you, Pete. I told you. I told you she was going to be a problem.”

“She’s not a problem,” he argued.

“Oh? Silly me!” She slapped her forehead mockingly as if suddenly seeing the light. “So you weren’t about to fuck her on a dressing room vanity?” she scoffed. “Spare me.” 

Wedged heels clacked and Ros made her way to stand before him, her voice made of ice. “We have a lot riding on this feature, Petyr. You _know_ this.” Then, rage took hold, and the soft thud of her bag hitting him echoed in the room, punctuating each word as he attempted to block her strikes, feet retreating as she advanced. “Don’t. Fuck it. Up. Just. To get. Your dick wet!”

She was breathing hard, temper a constant burn. “We are already over budget on this. The investors threw money at this thing,” indicating to the door,” _for her_. To see _her_. If you’ve ruined her…” The sentence hung, and she tossed the hair out of her face. “I am not going back out on the streets if this studio goes under.” There was an underlying threat to her tone. Ros new every seedy fucking backroom deal he made to get the studio up and running. Most illegal. Some downright shaming.

Petyr gulped down the need to bite back at her, grit his teeth. “There won’t be anymore hiccups. You have my word.”

“Fat lot of good that is.” The redhead turned on her heel, hips swaying towards the exit. “You can drop off her things with me tomorrow. Until filming is done, I don’t want to see you anywhere near her. Is that clear?”

"And just how am I supposed to do that?" he complained. "We fucking work together."

"Figure it out!"


	4. Chapter 4

Another week passed by, and Petyr’s mood was foul as he walked in the front doors. After the confrontation with Ros, the atmosphere of the studio felt tense. Or maybe that was just him. The sets were finished in record time, the final adjustments to the script were made, Tyrion had blocked out all but the sex scenes with the main players, and Sansa’s final costume had Ros's seal of approval. He’d been shut up in his office for most this activity — because in the cruel light of day, without the constant distraction of Sansa, he realized Ros’s concerns were valid — and busied himself with planning his next feature (far less challenging in scope, but a money maker nonetheless).

Today, however, Petyr decided to take a walkabout through the hustle and bustle of lighting rigs, and rehearsals, and last minute costume malfunctions. It was still his fucking building, his fucking reputation on the line, and Ros could eat a dick if she had issue with him checking on his project. He’d just rounded the corner of the Emerald City set when his eyes happened to fall on Sansa in conversation with some big, muscle bound, blonde that stood a full foot taller than Sansa herself. Their heads were huddled, and Sansa had a polite-but-shy smile on her face as the man hovered over her, leaning one arm against the wall, effectively trapping her. Petyr felt the pulse at his temple pound, every neuron in his body firing, telling him to tear across the concrete and break up their little tête-à-tête. Unfortunately(or perhaps fortunately depending on one’s view), his path was cut off before it could be traversed.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Ros as she laid a hand on his shoulder coming to stand in front of him.

Nostrils flared at her interference. “What? I don’t get to meet our newest cast member.” Lips pursed, eyes glared as they flit between the scene happening only yards away and the woman preventing him from throttling this new interloper. “Who is he? I don’t recall signing off on any new hires.”

“You didn’t. I did,” Ros stated. “His name is Harry Hardyng. He just arrived from California, and has impeccable references, a clean health workup, and quite the filmography.” Her hand pressed him back, and he refused to budge.

His spine was rigid as he attempted to intimidate. “Did you forget that I’m the one who gets final say? Or do I not run this ship anymore?”

Red tipped fingers found her hips, a scowl knitting her brow. “Shooting starts next week, and you’ve had weeks to pick someone, Pete. _Weeks_ ,” she hammered home, and a heaving sigh of exasperation escaped her. Her voice softened to reassure, “I’ve seen Harry’s work. He’s gentle, charismatic. He already has half the girls wrapped around his little finger and he’s been here less than a day. He’ll make her first time on camera easy. He’s _the guy_. Deal with it, Daddy.” 

A sharp shove to his torso, and Petyr finally relented to Ros’s common sense, but as he backed away, a spark of blue flame flashed to his own mossy irises where they still watched over Ros’s head. It was only a few seconds if that, but it was opportunity enough to recognize the self-satisfied smile that threatened to lift at the corner of her lips, to see the enticing way she ran her teeth over that pink flesh that he’d tasted not so long ago. And when her hand reached out to feel at the bicep Harry presented her, the way she feigned her admiration, the way her eyes locked with his again over the mound of muscle, Petyr felt his cock twitch. 

He knew exactly what she was doing. And what’s worse: It was working.

* * *

_What am I doing?_

This was the question he asked himself repeatedly since arriving. There was a line to get inside, and it moved at a trickle. It did not help that it was snowing out. His hands were fisted into his maroon leather jacket. It served to keep out the worst bite of the wind, but it didn’t do much to abate the unsettling chill.

When finally he arrived at the window, he passed the smallest bill he had through the tiny opening in the pane. “One please.”

The counter jockey eyed at him through the glass, a look of distaste etched on her lips. Petyr knew what she was thinking: An older man, immaculately dressed, entering an establishment favored by teenagers. It wasn’t complimentary.

“Skate rental, too?” she asked through divider.

“No.” The easiest lie slipped out. “I’m just meeting my daughter.”Her expression was skeptical, but she passed him the change and his entry receipt all the same. 

A waft of warm air encased him as he pushed through the heavy metal doors, and instantly the clattering that had plagued his teeth, the shivering that twitched his muscles uncontrollably, ceased. Only the icy brush of his medallion against his chest serving to remind of the position he’d been in mere moments before.

Then, came a whole new dilemma: finding that which he sought.

It was complete happenstance that Petyr heard about the tonight’s little outing. He’d been on his way to fetch coffee, and her friend from the birthday party — Myranda, as he later learned — was in the break room gabbing, still dressed in a harness they were assessing for the flying monkey scene, and spilling the beans about her plans tonight. She and Sansa and a few others were to hit up the roller rink for laughs. Petyr was happy that Sansa had the opportunity to let loose with friends. That is until it reached his ear that among the _few others_ , Harry had been included.

An image of that hulking piece of meat looming over Sansa, of the way his eyes undressed her, the simplistic way he tried to impress her with hard flesh — it was enough to pique his jealousy in a way that it hadn’t been in quite some time. Not since he was a mere boy.

Now, here he was attempting to navigate his way through a crowded roller rink without getting his toes crushed under wheel in the process. The rumble of skates on polished wood could still be heard even as music blared over head. Clusters of teenage girls and boys giggling, flirting, yelling into the chaos. Occasionally, young eyes would find him if he lingered too long in one place, and they’d slink off in the opposite direction with a distrustful glare. He felt very much an enemy soldier on the wrong side of the trenches. 

A dimly lit hallway between the skate rental and the lockers beckoned to him, and Petyr made his way over, perching in the shadows like a predator as his eyes combed over the crowd. It was easier to observe from the outside the bustle, pupils dilating in the darkness, allowing him to take in the scene more fully.

A flash of blinding auburn in the distance drew his gaze. He leaned into the wall, eyes narrowing on his target. It was her. 

_Sansa._

She was a mimicry of innocence — white skates with pink wheels, pink frilly socks folded primly over the top, a sequined set of booty shorts with matching suspenders (that he was certain she would freeze in the moment she set foot outside), and a tight graphic tee with a little yellow bird on it which was stretched across her chest. Those gorgeous auburn waves were loosely curled, fluttering around her shoulders, and Harry fucking Hardyng with his chiseled jaw and perfectly feathered hair was eying her up like a prime cut of beef.

The muscle in his neck twitched in frustration, nails digging into his palms. He couldn’t look away, nor could he intervene. Sansa didn’t even know he was here. 

And for her part, Sansa seemed nonplussed by Harry’s overbearing attentions. Even when a meaty hand managed to wrap around and settle on her waist as they rounded a turn on the rink, she played it off as a joke, lightly pushing him away to deftly glide out of his grip. The oaf seemed oblivious to her gentle brush off, smiling at her through unnaturally white, too perfect teeth. She looped her arm through Myranda’s and they giggled together, speeding away towards to the center rink to spin hand in hand to the pulsing rhythm of _Dancing Queen_. Between the disco ball overhead and the lights reflecting off her outfit, Sansa glowed ethereally; the smile on her face as she threw her head back to laugh an even more beautiful sight than that night at the discotheque. 

He needed to speak with her, touch her. It was one thing to leave a sleepy, sated girl safely tucked in her bed, knowing there was nothing he could do for her. It was another to have the temptation of her just within reach everyday, with only a take-no-shit assistant and his own willpower holding him in check. The latter now dissolved into dust, and the former quite noticeably absent.

After a few minutes observation, a uniformed employee passed within his eyesight, and Petyr managed to flag him down, sending him off with instructions to inform his _daughter_ of his arrival. He watched as she halted, leaned in to hear the boy’s message over Rocket Man’s powerful crescendo. Confusion was etched on her face until a finger lifted in his direction and a pair of deep, blue pools spotted him. The lines of her face smoothed, her eyes sparkling at the realization that he came. He came just for her, and he may be an idiot for giving into this weakness, but he’d do it all over again just to see that smile on her face. She whispered in Myranda’s ear before pushing off. The muscles in her legs flexing as she glided off the rink and over the vibrantly lined carpet towards him. Petyr met her stare across the hustle of the crowd, a supercilious twist to his mouth as he slunk deeper into the recessed hallway.

Less than a minute passed before Sansa was drifting into him, a soft press of her lips to punctuate her greeting. “Hello there,” she purred. 

“Hello yourself.” Petyr felt a door at his back, and he twisted the handle, retreating into a room with row upon row of shelves and skates, and pulling the girl in his arms right along with him.

“Hey!” called out pitchy-cracking voice. “You aren’t supposed to be in here.” The pimply-face teen, clearly suffering the ravages of puberty stood wearing all the authority of a dormouse as he tried to shoo them out.

Sansa smiled into Petyr’s neck, a little amused at the display. Petyr on the other hand, simply produced his wallet, handing over a tenner between index and middle fingers. “We just need five minutes.” 

Sansa’s brow arched at Petyr as if to say, _Is that all?_ , before her own lithe fingers plucked another bill from his still open wallet, extending it out, meeting his grey-green eyes pointedly as she did so. “Make it fifteen.” His brows jumped at her brazenness, but his eyes twinkled in sinful delight.

The pubescent teen blinked at their combined contributions, simple math telling him that it was more than he’d make all night. He snatched it up and scurried out with no small amount of haste. Petyr clicked the lock behind him.

“Fifteen whole minutes,” Petyr drawled as his hands settled on the curve of her backside. “I do wonder what you have in mind, sweetling.”

Her hands locked behind his neck as she teased him, “I think the better question is what you intended to do in just five.”

That bought her a chuckle, and she met his grinning lips with her own. He enjoyed her sass, and pulled her flush against him. In her skates, she was a good three inches taller, and he fought the urge to bury his face within the soft valley of her breasts.

She sighed into him. “You’re not supposed to be here, ya know.”

“What? I can’t check up on my star? Make sure she’s safe?”

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Sansa whispered against his lips. “But if Ros knew…” A pause. “She’s right you know. This is bad for business.” A confession of truth. 

“Let Ros have her hissy fit. I’ll decide what’s bad for business.” And he placed a fleeting kiss to the tip of her nose.

Resting against his temple, she murmured in Ros’s defense, “She’s just trying to protect us.”

Petyr hummed. “I know. Which is why I haven’t fired her.” It was partially true. Ros had a big heart — always taking in strays — but she was shrewd, too, and had a good instinct for business even if she didn’t have much in the way of education. This forced estrangement was as much self-preservation for her as it was for Petyr and Sansa. Yet, he didn’t want to argue the point. 

Gently tucking away the hair from her face, Petyr posed the question he was dying to ask. “I noticed you’re here with Harry. How are you two faring?”

Sansa retreated from her perch to see his face fully again, shoulders lifting in a shrug, the abrupt change of subject not fazing her in the least. “He’s alright. A little full of himself.” Her nails playfully twisted in the curls on his neck. “He’s been trying to kiss me all night. I think he wants to sleep with me. Says there’s better _on screen chemistry_ if there’s off screen experience.”

“Oh?” The twat. “And will you let him?” He tried to make his tone casual, but Sansa saw straight through him.

An auburn brow perked up. “Is that why you’re here, Petyr? Are you jealous?” she teased.

His hands flexed, only the bite of her sequined bottoms against his palms reminding him to release. The covetous beast within wanting him to claim that which is not his. _Not yet._ Inhaling slowly, he inched his grasp up to the dip of her waist; thumbs playing over cotton. A safer position as he slouched against the door, sucking his teeth. “You looked pretty chummy in the studio.”

“Oh my god! You are jealous,” she accused, but seeing the frustration at her discovery flit over his face she made her tone sickly sweet, pouting as she ran her hands down his jaw. “Poor baby.” But those dainty fingers didn’t cease their exploration. They continued in a tantalizingly slow path down his chest to settle low on his hips. “Maybe I can make it better?” She kissed his neck, tonguing the hollow of his throat before continuing, “Ros has been teaching me a few new skills that you might enjoy.”

An eyebrow twitched at her proposition. “Has she now?”

“Mhm,” Sansa purred against his chest, nails scraping beneath his jacket. “I’ve grown rather sick of the taste of cucumbers, though. Perhaps a new flavor?”

Her knees found the floor, and Petyr couldn’t tear his eyes away from where she sat submissively, blue eyes dancing as her fingers worked his belt free. He was already half hard just from her proximity. A few smooth tugs and his dick was hard enough to drill a diamond mine.

“Mmmm…” She ran the flat of her tongue along the vein where he pulsed. “Is that better, baby?”

A tiny wave of shivers crested over him at the naughty pitch of her voice. “It’s certainly a good fucking start.”

“If only,” she beamed up at him. “Unfortunately, I’m going to be missed soon, and we only have maybe ten minutes left. So, I’ll have to make this quick.”

In awe, Petyr watched as Sansa’s glossy lips opened, stretched over the stiff, bulbous purple head to suckle. He didn’t dare close his eyes to this sight. It was too perfect. Her hand pumping his shaft, blue eyes staring up at him in reverence, all that hair… He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for it, threading his fingers into those decadent waves of red, fisting it as she lapped down the fluid that gathered on his tip. He cursed under his breath, moaned as she guided him deeper.

In their previous encounters, it had always been him giving her pleasure. He’d never taken for himself, no matter how urgent the draw. To have her now, supplicating at his feet with his cock between her lips… It was probably the closest thing to heaven a heathen like himself would ever see. Her adventurous tongue traced along his ridges, and every muscle of his abdomen clenched she took him down her throat. A groan of torturous pleasure escaping him as her throat constricted around him with a swallow. He could only pray that he lasted for half their allotted time, and made a mental note to give Ros a fucking raise before he succumbed fully to the bliss of fucking Sansa’s exquisite mouth.

* * *

Two days into shooting, Tyrion busted into Petyr’s office, slamming the door. “We have a problem.”

Petyr glared at him over the top of the paperwork he was finishing. This was the third time today. First, it was a lighting issue that was easily resolved with a new spliced cable. The second time, it was Tyrion needing his ego puffed up as his self-confidence withered after an argument with Shae. At the expression on his face, Petyr could only wonder what new crisis the little man had stumbled into now. It’s porn, not high art, for fuck’s sake. 

His irritation waned, however, as Tyrion paced the room, rubbing the day’s stubble on his jaw as he announced, “Sansa is freezing up.”

Dropping the pen in his hand, Petyr braced himself over the desk. “What do you mean she’s freezing up? What the hell is happening out there, Tyrion?”

“I don’t know. She did fine in rehearsals just last week,” Tyrion explained, pulling a flask from his back pocket for a swig. A thick bushy brow arched as he stared Petyr down mid stride. “Don’t suppose you have any idea what might have changed?” 

_Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck._

Petyr’s chair screeched as he shot up, ignoring his annoying friend’s accusatory question. Digging in his pocket, he popped a fresh piece of mint gum in his mouth. The tingle on his tongue helped him to focus, though he knew precisely the issue. After their rendezvous at the roller rink, they’d been sneaking in secret; fooling around in the janitor’s closet, behind the costumes in wardrobe. They even snuck in a very risky finger fuck behind the soundstage during one rehearsal while Ros was preoccupied. All hasty five-minute encounters, but often enough that it could definitely be fucking with Sansa’s head.

“I’ve tried talking her through the scene, but the second anyone touches her, all color drains from her face. Now I have five takes of completely useless footage!” Tyrion lamented.

Petyr chewed harder as he racked his brain to recall the schedule. Harry wasn’t on the listed players this morning, which meant it wasn’t a sex scene. “What are you shooting?”

“The poppy scene.” Dorothy’s sexual awakening. The one scene that _had_ to sell her as a sexual goddess that every man would want to conquer. “You have a... _rapport_ with the girl. Do you think you could get through to her?”

As if Petyr had a choice.

* * *

The set was buzzing. Cliques of players and crew huddled in their corners, all of them eying Sansa curiously, speculating on what her issue could be. And Sansa looked defeated, small where she sat hunched at the edge of the raised poppy field; her little gingham skirt flared around her as her red shoes tapped nervously. 

Ros stared accusingly at Petyr as he and Tyrion entered. He waved her off. _Yes, yes, I’m an idiot, I know_. Petyr was familiar with the fallout when feelings meddled with performance, but he’d never been the cause. 

“Sansa.” He said the name softly, but her head shot up, a touch of shine to her eyes like she wanted to cry. It tugged at him, but this was business and he needed to get her head back in the game even as he railed against his own deeply seeded jealousy. He extended a hand to her, an invitation. “A word?” 

“I’m sorry, Petyr,” Sansa blurted as he took her aside, away from from all the prying eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this. I thought I could, but-” A tear slipped down her cheek, and he wiped it away before anyone could see, cradling her face in his hands.

“Shh, shh, shh, it’s okay,” he soothed.

“No.” She shook her head. “No, it’s not,” she huffed in exasperation.

“No, it’s not,” he reluctantly agreed, and her posture crumpled. He forced her to meet his eyes, and bored into her with all the compassion and warmth that he could muster. “But we _can_ work through this. It’s just a part, remember? What happens on that stage isn’t real.” Petyr wasn’t sure whether he was convincing himself or her in the moment — maybe both — but with tear laden eyes Sansa nodded. “Tell me what you need to make this happen.”

“I-” She sucked on her lips before relenting. “Less people?” She shrugged.

He released her head; the cool skin of her arms warming beneath his palms as he smoothed over them. “We can do that.”

“And…” She chewed on her cheek. “Can you be the one touching me?” The hope in her voice would have broken a lesser man.

“Me?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yeah. I-” Sansa glanced in the direction of the actors and actresses with their hands painted red and black and green — poppies for the field. “There’s just too many of them. A dozen hands grabbing and pulling at me all at once. I can’t get into it.” Her cheeks heated to a beautiful pink as she finished her explanation. It wasn’t that she _couldn’t_ rise to the occasion. She just needed a gentler touch.

Petyr moistened his lips as he considered their predicament. Touching her for closeups wouldn’t be an awful idea, but the wide shot might suffer. “Go get in position. I need to confer with my short friend.”

“Does that mean you’ll help?” Sansa asked with wide, expectant blue eyes.

“Maybe.” At the forlorn sagging of her lips, Petyr grasped her hands, holding her gaze as he pecked each of them softly. “Will you trust me? Please.”

A shudder accompanied her resigned sigh, and she signaled in the affirmative with a short dip of her head. 

“Good girl.” He placed a kiss to her temple, his grin positively leering. “I promise, you will like what I have in mind.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Petyr asked Tyrion, his arms crossed as he observed the performers mill towards their positions for another take over the man’s head.

“It could work,” he admitted. “We’d have to do some artistic editing, and maybe a separate sound recording later…” He scratched at his chin. “But it could work.”

* * *

All non-essential crew were ordered off the soundstage. Tyrion reclined next to one of the stationary cameras to the side, while two other camera men circled the scene. The studio lit up as Petyr made his way onto to platform where Sansa sat surrounded by poppy flowers of the silk and _flesh_ variety. The murmurs beneath the platform barely audible above the sound of Petyr’s steps. She was nervous, fingers adjusting her tear-away skirt, but her shoulders relaxed a fraction when Petyr crouched down beside her.

“Sweetling,” he greeted, his voice softer, deeper, “I want you to lie back, and listen to my voice.” 

Sansa hesitated, but inched her way into the soft fake grass at her back, hair flaming out like a halo. 

“Good. Now close your eyes.” The mellow tones of his voice seduced her into compliance.

“Do you remember the night we met?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly.

“Don’t speak,” he chided playfully, running the pad of one finger ever so gently down the column of her neck until it elongated, drawing out the sensation until a tiny whimper passed her lips. Always so responsive to his touch. _Perfect._ Ignoring the press of his own arousal, Petyr signaled for Tyrion to start filming. Every man here would have one soon enough; that he was more susceptible to her charms than most — that all it takes is her proximity, the lightest touch, a soft moan from her lips — was not pertinent to the task at hand.

His lips found her collarbone, tongue darting out for a taste of her sweetness, inhaling her intoxicating musk. “You took my breath away that night,” he husked. “Bundled up safe in your little bed; hiding away from all the wickedness happening around you.” A hand slid over the top of her knee, trailing tantalizingly up and up. She shuddered.

“It took all my willpower not to slide in next to you immediately.” His fingers teased along the inside of her thigh. “Not to strip you bare so I could see just how far that virginal blush went.” Up and down he stroked, until she was pushing back into him; her hips gyrating, wanting more. When he was certain she was lost in his touch, in the memory, he directed one of the false poppies to his position, showing it just how to caress as he deftly moved his own to a different locale.

“I wanted you, even then.” She moaned, arched into the hand at her thigh, and the new one now teasing below her breast. His thumb circled her nipple until it formed a sharp peak, and he laid a dry peck to her stomach, slowly introducing yet another poppy to fondle her, always showing them just how Sansa liked to be touched.

“You were so achingly beautiful.” She writhed, her hands finding their way above her head as it thrashed to and fro. “So innocent.” Another red stained hand placed to her neck, another to her arm, her opposite breast and thigh as he built up the sensation of being caressed one languorous hand at a time. Only the very thinnest of restraint kept him from rutting against her, against his own hand; his cock painfully hard as wetness tinged the inside of his boxers.

Sansa whined, pushed and strained against each poppy, seeking, seeking, seeking until finally Petyr’s hand dipped between her legs. Her gasp was like music, filling his ears as he rubbed that sweet space, her slickness coating his fingers through the flimsy white cotton that would soon be removed, passed through rung after rung of hands until she was completely exposed. He worked her and worked her, tormenting that delicate hub of nerves until her voice was hoarse. God, watching her was beyond erotic. She’s going to be a fucking star.

He didn’t want to give up this position, allow some undeserving hand of some faceless man or woman to bring her to ecstasy, but Tyrion cleared his throat rather pointedly, and with reluctance( _great reluctance_ ), Petyr transferred the last hand before backing away, one slow step at a time, fully allowing himself to take in the spectacular show happening at his feet before he silently, carefully descended to where Tyrion sat.

“You’re a genius, Baelish,” whispered Tyrion. “I don’t know what exactly you were whispering in that girl’s ear, but it worked. Just look at that,” he said in awe.

Staring at the screen previewing the overhead shot, Petyr's pulse quickened. Flawless porcelain skin twisted in the green, green grass; red and black stains smearing over each and every flushed and heated curve as one by one the last vestiges of Sansa's costume were methodically removed. The Birth of a sinfully delicious Venus into their midst marked with Sansa's orgasmic cries. 

“Trust me, I’m looking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter and this fic is D O N E!!!!


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